


Tale as Old as Time

by andthenwedance



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 01:57:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10709739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthenwedance/pseuds/andthenwedance
Summary: “So, it’s true then?” Matthew said, “The legend? You’re the beast that ate Lady Mary?”It still didn’t explain the talking dish ware, but he could at least start with the beast.“You idiot,” The beast snapped, “I am Lady Mary.”(the beauty and the beast au that you probably didn't expect)





	Tale as Old as Time

**Author's Note:**

> lads. i was planning on posting this last weekend, but i got swamped with work and then traveling. it's a birthday fic for dear karine.
> 
> i had a much better draft written but my computer deleted it by accident, so unfortunately i'm posting the second to last draft which is less stellar but hopefully better than nothing. enjoy this little fairy tale (to be told in four parts).

 

Matthew had always loved to read and because of that he believed in magic.

 

And that, in the end, made all the difference.

 

\--

 

If he were to write his own story (which he wouldn’t, because he cared far more for reading than writing, far more for finished books then notebooks), he would start his own story with a copy of _Charlotte’s Web_. He was 7 and he’d pinched it from the library shelf, despite the fact that it’d been on a shelf titled “9 and Up.” But it had a funny pig and wistful spider and graceful writing, so even if it was a little challenging, he was engrossed.

 

Then again, it didn’t take much to get Matthew reading. When he’d been a toddler, his mother had read novels to him, finding that he had attention spans for books that were far ahead of his age. By the time Matthew was 4, he was reading picture books easily on his own and by 6 he’d graduated to chapter books. He didn’t need pictures, preferring instead to imagine them in his mind.

 

He got good marks in school, unsurprisingly really, considering his parents were both English Literature professors at University of Manchester. Even at 7 years old, he was at home tucked within the red brick buildings, unintimidated by large, lofty libraries. His parents had instilled in him a comfort around books.

 

Evenings in the Crawley household were marked by gathering around the fire, a book in each person’s hand, half drank cups of tea scattered around them. Looking back, Matthew would see these as the golden times. A perfect and precious little family bound together by their love of books.

 

On a particular Sunday (the Sunday that changed everything), Matthew was in the car with his parents headed to the countryside where his granny lived for Sunday Dinner.

 

“How is the book coming, my dear chap?” Asked his father, glancing back at him in the rearview mirror.

 

They were bumping around in the car, flicking past bits of countryside. _Charlotte’s Web_ was sitting open on Matthew’s lap.

 

“Quite well,” Matthew said with the precocious voice of a seven year old who knew too many words.

 

“Quite well,” His father repeated, amused by his son’s vocabulary.

 

“You see, I’m fond of the use of diction in the weavings of the spider in the web and the empathetic narrative,” Matthew babbled.

 

His parents exchanged a bemused smile. There something in their expressions that said, “Our family is perfect. Matthew will grow up to love books just as we do. He will do great things.” Or at least that’s what Matthew thought in reading their faces. He felt a bit of pride swell in him.

 

And then he felt the impact.

 

He was flying, scattering, shattering.

 

There was a scream.

 

And then there was nothing.

 

\--

 

He blinked open his eyes to see his mother. Everything was hazy and foggy. He could see his mother’s eyes and that instantly comforted him.

 

“My dear boy,” Her voice said gently, “How do you feel?”

 

At first Matthew couldn’t remember how to speak. His mind seemed to scrambled, everything seemed surreal.

 

He was in a hospital, he thought. It looked like a hospital, with too-white walls and a faint antiseptic smell. He couldn’t remember why he would be in a hospital. All he remembered was driving in the sunshine, the country flicking by, a book on his lap, and pride on his parent’s faces.

 

His mother was here now. His wonderful, kind, bookish mother. But where was his father? Was he not worried for him too?

 

“Matthew?” His mother asked again, “How are you feeling?”

 

This time he knew he needed to manage to say something or else his mother might worry for him. He didn’t want her to worry.

 

His mouth was parched, but he managed to move his lips to say, “I’m alright.”

 

“Would you like some water?” She asked.

 

He nodded and she brought a straw to his mouth.

 

“Do you remember what happened?” She asked him.

 

This time he shook his head.

 

“You were in a car accident,” She told him, “We all were.”

 

He noticed it now, a row of stitches across his mother’s forehead, her arm wrapped in a cast.

 

“Am I okay?” Matthew asked, hesitant.

 

After all, he was seven and didn’t know much about medicine. But he knew that his head shouldn’t feel so funny. He began to wonder if something had messed up his head. Maybe he would dizzy and fuzzy for the rest of his life. He didn’t like that idea. He didn’t know how he’d read with so much fog in his brain.

 

“You got very hurt and you’ve been asleep for a few days healing,” She told him, “The doctors gave you medicine to make you feel better, but it makes you very sleepy.”

 

That explained the weird fog in his brain.

 

But it didn’t explain everything.

 

“There is something funny about my legs,” He whimpered.

 

His saw his mother’s face shadow.

 

“I know, darling, I know,” She said, “But we can worry about that later.”

 

But he didn’t want to know later. He didn’t want to fall back sleep and then wake up in dread to hear the truth. He just wanted it now. He needed his mum just rip off the plaster and tell him the worst of it.

 

“No,” His small voice managed, “Tell me now.”

 

“You’ve broken your spine,” His mother told him.

 

He could see the way she was trying to keep her voice even.

 

“You won’t be able to walk,” She summarized, with tears shining in her eyes.

 

“But I’ll get a cast and I’ll get better,” Matthew told her.

 

Matthew had read books about broken bones and he knew casts made them all better. He would be better too.

 

“No, Matthew, it doesn’t work like that,” She told him, “You don’t get better from this.”

 

Matthew’s entire tiny world crashed around him.

 

“But if I can’t walk-“ He began.

 

“You’ll be in a wheelchair,” She began, but then broke into a sob. His mother never sobbed. “You’ll be in a wheelchair for the rest of your life.”

 

Matthew realized he was crying too now. Childish sobs eeking from body. A nurse rushed in.

 

“You’ve upset him?” The nurse said to Isobel. “This will only make the injuries worse. I assume you told him about his father? That’s what provoked this?”

 

Isobel made a painful, croaking noise and shook her head.

 

And that’s how Matthew realized that his father had died.

 

\--

 

Matthew’s story continued as all stories do. Even it doesn’t seem possible to move on, to continue, he did.

 

He stayed in the hospital for a bit longer. His mother brought him stacks of books every day to read. Matthew discovered another use for books- escape. When he had a book in hand, he forgot about how miserable his situation was. He forgot about his pain, about the idea of being wheelchair. He felt a little more like himself with a book in his hands.

 

But being home brought new challenges. It meant getting used to maneuvering his house in a new wheelchair. It meant his mother carrying him up the stairs to his room in the middle of the night. It meant dreaming of car crashes and waking in tears, his mother coming to sleep beside him in his bed until they subsided. It meant dealing with going back to school and facing the prodding questions from his classmates.

 

It was too much. Matthew could see the hollowness in his mother’s face. He could tell she was sad in a way he’d never seen his mother sad before. Matthew felt the same emptiness everywhere. He felt it most when they’d sit together in the evening by the fire with their books and tea. There were two empty chairs in the living room, Matthew’s and his fathers. Nothing felt right and things were never going to be the same.

 

One day Isobel went to meet Matthew at the school yard gate when school finished. She began pushing him towards their home. Normally, she’d ask him about his day, but today she was silent.

 

Finally, she turned into a little park. It was a nice day, nearly time for summer break. She bought Matthew an ice cream and a new book, _Stuart Little_.

 

They sat in silence in the little park for a few moments before she told him.

 

“Matthew, I’ve been offered a position a different university, one called Oxford, to teach English literature,” She told him.

 

“That’s brilliant, Mum,” He told her.

 

He looked up at her.

 

“Matthew, if I take the job, it means we’ll have to leave Manchester and live in a new city,” She explained. “Would you hate that very much, leaving Manchester?”

 

Matthew thought about it. Their house felt weird and empty without his father.  There were always gaps of things that were missing, always reminders that his father was gone. Manchester felt different and strange from his chair. He was suddenly looking for ramps everywhere. Maybe things would be easier somewhere new.

 

“Yeah, okay, let’s go,” Matthew said.

 

They waited till school finished for the year to make the move. Matthew and Isobel packed up their house, books upon books stowed into boxes and loaded into their car. His granny came in from the country to help them move. It was three-hour drive to their new home.

 

Life seemed to turn around for them in Oxford. They moved into a modern house with fresh, white walls. The new house had a bedroom on the ground floor for Matthew, so he finally felt as if he gained more privacy and autonomy. Isobel fell gracefully into her new teaching position. They had a new fireplace that they’d gather around for tea and books.

 

Matthew liked his new school. He made friends by letting them ride with him in his chair. Isobel took to teaching at Exeter. She preferred the conversation and discussion that came with the tutorial method over large lectures.

 

Winters passed as Matthew found adventures in wardrobe that led to far off lands, in a magical wizard school castle, and in dystopian futures. Summers passed as he found adventures in mysterious old abbeys, in Victorian London streets, and in the American south. Sure, his world was limited by his chair, but with the right book in hand- Matthew could go anywhere.

 

He started secondary school and made even more friends. Turns out, everyone wants an excuse to push your wheel chair if that means they can leave class early. He was still a little shy and always bookish. His school friends worked hard to include him in sports, trying to find ways to make it accessible for him, but the truth was he didn’t care too much for them. He was happier on the sidelines with a book tucked into his chair.

 

Isobel never wanted Matthew to feel like he missed out on anything. She took him traveling during his summer breaks. France one summer, Italy the next. Once they spent weeks driving across America, giggling as they tried not to drive on the wrong side of the road. Another summer they went to New Zealand and seeing sights that Matthew had only thought were possible in books.

 

He did well in classes, especially English literature. So it was no surprise to anyone when he eventually enrolled at Oxford to study literature himself. Many of his friends wanted to go to schools farther away, to get out of the bubble. But Matthew liked his house where he knew he could get around in his chair. He liked tea with his mum every night. Between summer trips and his books, he had plenty adventure. Another three years here wouldn’t harm him.

 

College was a bit more boisterous, but not by much. Matthew wasn’t one for large parties. He didn’t like drinking. He didn’t want to be a burden for someone to take care of in his chair. He wasn’t fond of dancing either. It seemed silly moving around in his chair. He knew that there were people who probably found ways to enjoy dancing anyway, but maybe he was just never the dancing type in the first place.

 

When he graduated, his only thought was how he could continue to fill his life with more books. He thought of getting a Ph.D like his mother, but he loved reading stories more than researching them. He thought maybe of going into publishing, but he didn’t think he had the grit for business side of books. In the end, he decided on a Masters in Library Science. It would be perfect for him.

 

Somehow, between several thousand books and two jobs in Oxford libraries, Matthew began to near his thirties.

 

His mother met him after work one day at the garden gate, before he could enter the house.

 

“Let’s walk, shall we?” She said, her voice strange. He hadn’t seen her like this in a long time.

 

She pushed his chair, something she didn’t do often, but it only made sense when they were walking along the sidewalk since they couldn’t walk two abreast.

 

Isobel was silent as they walked. She stopped suddenly to dip into a store and came out with two ice cream cones. She wheeled him into a small park, just around the corner.

 

“I’m suddenly feeling an odd sense of déjà vu,” Matthew laughed.

 

“As you should,” Isobel said. She sighed, “I’m going to retire. I’ve decided.”

 

“Mum, that’s amazing,” Matthew ooed, “I’m glad you’ve decided on it.”

 

Her face still looked nervous. Matthew wondered what else she might need to share.

 

“Well, here’s the thing darling, I’ve decided to move to the country,” Isobel said.

 

“Oh,” Matthew said, taking in this change.

 

“I’ve always wanted to live in a cottage of a little village,” She told him, “I just want tea and a fire and a view of the rolling hills.”

 

“I see,” Matthew said.

 

All of a sudden his quiet, easy life was thrown into disarray. He’d always lived with his mother. They were a family, companions. By now, he knew that he could live on his own. There were few things that he hadn’t found a way to adjust to in this new life. After all, he’d been in his chair since he was seven. But yet he didn’t want to live alone either.

 

“Would I come with you?” He asked.

 

Isobel was silent for a moment, thoughtful. Matthew’s stomach clenched.

 

“That would be up to you,” She told him. “Matthew, I love your company. I would truly miss life with you. But you’re 29, you don’t need to live with your mum. If you want to have adventures of your own, now is the time.”

 

Matthew felt his cheeks burn. Sure, there was a bit of him that wanted adventures in the great wide somewhere. Everyone does. But he had books to travel through. He’d seen a good amount of the world with his mum. He didn’t need to live on his own to live the life he wanted.

 

Besides, living alone was expensive. It’d be twice the work as well, without his mum to share cleaning and cooking duties with. Why break something broken?

 

There was a bit of him that wondered if it was lame, weak even, to follow his mother. He was 29. He should have his own place. He should have a girlfriend, or even a wife, at this point.

 

What good would he be to a wife? He’d just be a burden, taking up too much space, never able to give enough or be helpful enough. He was the cat who walks alone. He was better this way.

 

“I’ll come with you,” Matthew said, hastily.

 

Isobel nodded and hugged him, “I was hoping you’d say that.”

 

\--

 

Another round of moving began- packing and boxes and a long drive up Yorkshire. Isobel had picked out a quaint village called Downton. It was something out of a period novel- flower shows, farmers markets, and lots of local gossip. There was even a dusty old manor sitting on the hill.

 

They moved into a country cottage. Isobel launched into country-life with her usual fervor. She joined a gardening club and a bridge group. She somehow became the chair of the Downton Literary Festival. Matthew got a job at a library a town over called Ripon. It was a far cry from his time spent at the libraries of Oxford, but he likes the pace of life in a small town. It’s easier. People here read for pleasure instead of trying to get ahead academically.

 

He began to know a small cast of characters who frequented the library. There was Lavinia Swire. She was a local school teacher who’d stayed in Downton to take care of her father. She’d come every Thursday afternoon looking for books on gardening to take her father and a few classic novels, the likes of Jane Austen and George Elliot, for herself.

 

“She likes you, you know,” Isobel whispered, as she watched Lavinia walk out of library one afternoon.

 

“Who Miss Swire?” Matthew laughed, “Mum, girls don’t like me.”

 

“I’m not so sure that’s true,” Isobel said, “You’re terribly smart, not bad on the eyes, and effortless kind.”

 

“But I’d be a pathetic lover,” Matthew said, “And likely a burden on anyone who takes an interest in me.”

 

“That’s not true at all, my darling son,” Isobel told him, “You are entirely self-sufficient and I think you could make the right woman very, very happy.”

 

Matthew had simply laughed and ignored the advice.

 

Richard Carlisle was another frequenter of the Ripon Library. He part Real Estate Mogul, part Newspaper Mogul, but mostly he came into check out books on hunting. Matthew hated him. He was brash, greedy.

 

“Matthew, I brought you a paper for free this week,” Carlisle told him, “I’ve got a bit on local folklore which seems like something you’d be interested in. I could give a lecture on it for the library if you insist.”

 

Matthew tried to hold his tongue to say that he’d never be interested in having Carlisle as guest lecturer and that he didn’t think that the man was qualified at all to give lectures in any subject.

 

Later that night, Matthew and Isobel were at the Grey house for dinner. Isobel had befriended Richard Grey from her bridge club and they’d been invited over for dinner. While the older man seemed a good match for Isobel, Matthew didn’t care much for the sons who he could only describe as prigs.

 

“You’ll never guess what article the dreaded Carlisle brought me today,” Matthew shared, pulling out the paper.

 

“The Downton Abbey Beast: Fact or Fiction,” Isobel read over his shoulder.

 

“Oh no,” Richard Grey said, looking up from his salad, “The Downton Abbey Beast is very much fact.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Matthew said, “It seems like an urban legend that grew too big for its britches.”

 

“What’s the legend?’ Isobel asked. Matthew knew that his mum loved good bits of local lore.

 

“Well, at the turn of the century, Downton Abbey was occupied by the Crawley family, led by the Earl of Grantham,” Explained Richard Grey, “There were three daughters, Lady Mary, Lady Edith, and Lady Sybil. In 1917, Lord and Lady Grantham and their daughter Lady Edith went out for a drive just before Christmas and died tragically in an accident. It was very hard on Lady Mary, losing her family like that. She became very withdrawn and stopped leaving the house. Lady Sybil stayed in the house with her, but both of them were quite worried about being forced out by whoever would inherit the estate next now that their father was gone. Eventually, the new heir did appear and he walked up to the house, knocked on the door, and then ran away in fright.”

 

The room felt quieter now, a spooky edge to the air.

 

“Why?” Isobel asked.

 

“Apparently, when got there, there was a terrible beast terrorizing the house,” Richard Grey said, “They were all dead- Lady Mary, Lady Sybil, every single servant.”

 

Matthew drew a slow breath. He didn’t believe in stories like that, but it did give him something close to shivers.

 

“And the scariest part is, there were no bodies found. All of them just gone,” Richard added.

 

Isobel laughed, “It’s obvious that they simply moved out, isn’t it? Maybe Lady Mary left some sort of animal in the house to scare off the heir. We can all become savage with grief.”

 

“No,” Richard said, “There truly was a beast. Still is today.”

 

“Are you serious? Do you really believe this?” Isobel asked.

 

“Of course, everyone in Downton believes in the Downton Abbey Beast,” Richard Grey said.

 

“While I love local legends and traditions, I can’t believe that you’ve let such a beautiful, historical building go to waste,” Isobel remarked.

 

Matthew nodded. He couldn’t help but agree with his mum. It was a shame to let such a marvelous old building just sit there. Yet, at the same time, he marveled at the respect that the villagers had for the local legend that was nearly 100 years old now.

 

“What if we used it for the Downton Literary Festival?” Isobel said suddenly.

 

“Surely not,” Richard Grey said, “No one has been in that place in a century.”

 

“Can’t you just imagine it?” Isobel said, her eyes bright, “Even with just a few rooms fixed up, it would be the perfect location. We could have writing workshops inside some rooms, author readings in another. We could fix up maybe a ballroom or library to hold vendors. There could even be a tea room in the kitchen.”

 

“Mum, really,” Matthew said, “I’m not sure it’s our business. These people seem to take this legend seriously, even if we don’t. I’m sure there is another estate we could find to host your festival.”

 

“Nonsense,” Isobel declared, “I’m not going to let a silly old legend dictate my plans like the rest of you. No, I’m going up to Downton Abbey tomorrow and I’m going to investigate this silly urban legend. I’ll put an end to the myth of the Downton Abbey Beast once and for all. And then throw the greatest literary festival that Downton, Yorkshire has ever seen.”

 

Matthew let out a chuckle. He would have thought that his mum was curing world hunger with the fervor she spoke. But maybe that’s how this festival was Isobel, like all things she undertook, she did it with a serious passion. How could Matthew expect anything less from his mum?

 

\--

 

It wasn’t until the following evening that Matthew began to worry. Isobel had left early that morning to investigate Downton Abbey and hadn’t returned.

 

Matthew had spent the first few hours of her disappearance imagining her having tea with whatever unsuspecting owner had made her acquaintance. Matthew had imagined that she’d been persuading them to help with the Festival, offering to help redecorate herself.

 

Then Matthew had imagined that maybe she had in fact found the house empty. Maybe she’d gone right to work refurbishing, exploring the old ruin, and inventing up ways to use it for her plans.

 

But as the sun began to set, true worries began to creep into Matthew’s mind. Maybe she’d been arrested for trespassing. But why hadn’t she called? Matthew would have surely bailed her out. Maybe she was too ashamed.

 

Or perhaps she’d fallen, tripped on the dramatic stairway, or slipped on a cracked floorboard. She wasn’t a frail old woman, but she was getting up there. She could be seriously injured if she fell the wrong way.

 

As the sun dropped below the horizon, and her cell phone went to the answering machine for the fourth time, Matthew made up his mind to go find her. He pushed himself relentlessly up the hill, thankful for the gradual slope, to investigate the abbey. As he neared the grounds, it was obvious the whole place had been abandoned for years. The grass grew long. The rose bushes curled into an overgrown, knotted mess. There were fallen trees and weed-ridden gravel. All things considered, Matthew was quite proud of managing the chair through such a wilderness. Frankly, he was exhausted, his arms aching, after he arrived in view of Downton Abbey.

 

It was a grand old building. It looked like something out of a regency novel, tall and stately. He tried to imagine the building as it once was, with women in long swooping dresses, servants scattered about, and horses prancing through the fields. For a moment, he longed to see the building in it’s glory. He longed for Lady Mary’s world before it came crashing down on her. He would be sullen too if he’d have to leave a home as grand as this.

 

He pushed himself up to the door. The building seemed even grander, standing right before it. The only problem seemed to be that there was a small step up to actually reach the door. Just a big enough step that prevented Matthew from knocking.

 

Instead he decided to try calling out. “Mum? Isobel? Are you in there? Can you come out? It’s me, Matthew, I’m a bit worried.”

 

There was a sound of something shifting inside. Something, or something, he supposed, was inside the abbey.

 

He decided to try to get over the step. Sometimes, if he came at a curb fast enough, he could get over it. He wheeled himself backwards and then came at it really quickly.

 

And smack.

 

It didn’t work, in fact it backfired as miserably as possible, and Matthew toppled backwards, chair and all. He whacked his head and then everything went blurry.

 

\--

 

“Oh, the poor thing,” A voice was saying, feminine and soft, “What can we do?”

 

“We’ll have to go get the Mistress,” A male voice replied, “She’s the only one that can move him.”

 

“No, we can’t,” The woman replied, “She won’t let him go if she find him.”

 

“So? Maybe that’s a good thing,” The man said, “Maybe he’s the one.”

 

“The one to break the spell?” She replied, “That’s selfish of us to use this poor dear for own need.”

 

Matthew blinked open his eyes to see what appeared to be a feather duster and candlestick walking towards him. And talking.

 

How hard had he hit his head?

 

“Oh look, he’s waking up,” The woman- the feather duster- said.

 

“That still doesn’t the solve the problem of what to do with him,” The candlestick replied.

 

Maybe Matthew was dead and this was some bizarre afterlife. Or maybe he hadn’t actually woken up.

 

He let his eyes flutter shut.

 

“Anna, we can’t keep him out here,” The man’s voice said, “It may be spring, but it will be freezing in a few hours. We have to get him inside.”

 

“But we can’t just offer him to the Mistress, Bates,” The woman replied, “You know she’ll be treacherous to him. You saw how she treated that old woman this morning.”

 

“What choice do we have?” The candlestick said, “I think facing the mistress is better than Certain Death. Besides, like I said before, maybe he’ll break the spell. We certainly aren’t getting any younger.”

 

“I suppose it is our only option,” The feather duster admitted.

 

Matthew drifted off again as he heard their voices move away. He solemnly hoped that when he opened his eyes again he would be less concussed.

 

\--

 

When Matthew blinked his eyes open again, he was situated on something softer than the gravel drive of Downton Abbey. It was a very, very tiny room. There was a small window beside him that showed him in the dim early morning light a view of forests and fields and the village in the distance. It struck him that he must be _inside_ the abbey.

 

He felt immediately grateful that someone had thought to take him in and help him recover from his evidently severe concussion. Had he really imagined a talking feather duster and candlestick? What on earth could have provoked that illusion?

 

His head was pounding, so he must have hit it pretty hard. He searched to see if perhaps whoever had carried him in had left perhaps some ibuprofen and water for him. There wasn’t any, but there was a still warm teapot and teacup waiting for him.

 

Ah tea. It would be something at least. Matthew had always found that a cup of tea calmed in any time of need, a comfort born out of the many nights he’d take tea with his mother besides the fire.

 

He poured the tea into the cup, before adding some milk from the pitcher besides it. He carefully lifted the lively daisy printed teacup. He noticed that it was chipped a bit, and he ran his finger over the chipped part before-

 

“That tickles.”

 

Was that the-?

 

Matthew let out a small shriek and dropped the cup, scalding himself with the tea and making a mess of it over the blankets.

 

“Daisy, I told you not talk to him,” The teapot replied.

 

The teapot?

 

“I said you’d only scare the poor dear and now look what you’ve done,” The teapot added.

 

Matthew fumbled with the cup, putting it back on the dresser.

 

“Sorry, Mister,” The cup replied, “Sorry, Mrs Patmore.”

 

Matthew was too startled to speak.

 

“Welcome to Downton Abbey,” The teapot said, “I’m Mrs. Patmore. Head cook. And this is Daisy, my kitchen maid. And you are?”

 

“Um, my name is Matthew,” He managed to choke out.

 

“Well, Mr. Matthew,” The teacup said, “I really am sorry about startling you.”

 

“I’m sure that the Mistress heard it as well,” Sighed Mrs. Patmore, “She’ll be in here any moment.”

 

“Who is-?” Matthew began to ask, when the door to his small room burst open.

 

In crept what he could only describe as the Downton Abbey Beast. It was different than how he imagined. A long creature, with shiny black fur. Despite its grizzly appearance, it moved gracefully. There something rather feline, rather feminine about this beast.

 

It moved up to perch itself on the foot of his bed.

 

“How dare you disturb my peace?” It asked.

 

Because apparently it could talk.

 

She. The beast was definitely a woman.

 

“You just barging into my home uninvited, unasked,” She continued.

 

Matthew continued to gape at the demon, as it’s dark eyes flared with anger.

 

“So, it’s true then?” Matthew said, “The legend? You’re the beast that ate Lady Mary?”

 

It still didn’t explain the talking dishware, but he could at least start with the beast.

 

“You idiot,” The beast snapped, “I am Lady Mary.”

 

All of sudden the pieces came together in his head. Lady Mary never died. She’d never been eaten. The servants, Lady Sybil, all of them- they were all still here in the house.

 

“Crikey,” Was Matthew could muster.

 

The Beast, Lady Mary, huffed and rolled her eyes. He didn’t know what a beast could do that, but somehow she managed to show her precise annoyance with him.

 

“So what happened? How did you come upon me?” She demanded.

 

“Well, I was looking for my mum,” Matthew began.

 

“Oh, you are the son of the nosy woman who barged in here,” Mary remarked, “That makes plenty sense. It must run in your family. Can you believe that I locked her up and then she asked if I’d mind letting her use the abbey for a literary festival?”

 

Matthew allowed himself a laugh, surprised that he could do so given the current situation, “I’m really not surprised at all.”

 

“Of course not,” Snarled Mary.

 

“Look, is my mum still here?” Matthew asked.

 

“Yes,” Mary said, “I’ve got her locked up in servant’s room.”

 

“Hmm,” Matthew said, “Well, are you planning on keeping her there?”

 

“I don’t know,” Mary snapped.

 

“What if I offered myself in her place?” Matthew said, a valiance rising up in him that he didn’t normally have.

 

“You?’ Mary asked.

 

“Listen my mother, I love her, but she’ll be pestering you for the next century for a chance to use your manor home for her literary needs. Here’s what you should do- let her go. She can go into town and spread the word that the Downton Abbey Beast still exists,” Matthew explained.

 

“Hmmm,” Lady Mary said, “And what about you?”

 

“You can have me instead,” Matthew offered.

 

Lady Mary blinked her eyes in surprise at the offer.

 

“I need to consider that,” She said finally, “I’ll be back later to tell you my decision.”

 

She pounced out the door and closed it with a flourish.

 

Matthew let his eyes drift closed and thoroughly hoped that all of this was illusion of his concussion riddled brain. He thought maybe if he fell back sleep he’d wake up and it would all be a dream.


End file.
